by Sydney Bauer
Sydney Bauer has worked as a journalist and TV executive. While Director of Programming for a major Australian network, Sydney was able to indulge a personal passion for US dramas such as CSI, Law and Order and 24 and meet with revered TV writers such as Steven Bochco.
Also by Sydney Bauer
Undertow
Gospel
Alibi
MOVE
TO
STRIKE
SYDNEY
BAUER
First published 2009 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Sydney Bauer 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Bauer, Sydney.
Move to strike / Sydney Bauer.
978 1 4050 3907 9 (pbk.)
A823.4
Typeset in 11/15pt Birka by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane, Queensland
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group.
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2009 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Move to Strike
Sydney Bauer
Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74198-451-4
Online format: 978-1-74198-532-0
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CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT SYDNEY BAUER
ALSO BY SYDNEY BAUER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
PART TWO
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
PART THREE
CHAPTER 83
EPILOGUE
To Brian – my ‘Arthur’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always there are so many people to thank.
First up a huge thank you to all at Pan Macmillan – James Fraser, Kylie Mason, Jane Novak and especially my publisher and friend Cate Paterson.
Thanks also to Harvey Klinger.
To my amazing friends in Boston including: Boston Municipal Court’s Christopher Connolly and the wonderful Superior Court’s Dana Leavitt – one of the smartest, kindest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting; Jake Wark and the legendary Tom O’Reilly for allowing me to pick their experienced prosecutorial brains; Marcia Izzi and all at the Boston ME’s Office for their learned advice and sunny dispositions; the DYS’s Mary Sylva and Fred White – who not only taught me all there is to know about juvenile justice in Massachusetts but also showed me the ‘rock’. A special thanks to David Yannetti – my real life David Cavanaugh; Kevin Molis – my very own Joe Mannix; and John Sorese, the man I was lucky enough to sit next to on a plane.
To Dr John Donnellan – a brilliant physician, sharp-shooting firearms expert and friend rolled into one.
To my friends and family – a big thank you for your support. And most importantly to Jarrod for steering me through the most difficult of plot twists both in these pages and not, and Claudia, who feeds the squirrels in Boston Common with peanuts and me with hope and inspiration and love.
PROLOGUE
Saturday 10 February
‘Remind me why I am here again,’ said Boston Police Department’s Homicide Unit Chief Joe Mannix as he tugged at the too-tight bow tie around his neck. It was almost eight and pre-dinner drinks had been flowing for well over an hour – the noise level in Boston’s impressive Four Seasons Hotel ballroom increasing with every glass of Veuve Clicquot.
‘Ah . . . well,’ began Joe’s good friend, Boston criminal defence attorney David Cavanaugh. ‘I’ll start with the fact that I spent my entire last weekend shovelling snow from your driveway, and then, let’s see, there was that little matter of my helping you push your SUV down said driveway so I could charge it with jumper leads from my LandCruiser which saw your car purring like a kitten and my battery left flatter than the beer at the Idle Hour,’ he finished, referring to Joe’s less than savoury drinking haunt in South Boston.
‘The beer at the Idle tastes just fine,’ said Joe. ‘And you should stop complaining. In the very least I was kind enough to give you a lift home.’
‘In your SUV,’ smiled David. ‘Which I have no doubt is still purring like a . . .’
‘Kitten?’ interrupted a now grinning Joe. ‘Nah – more like a contented tiger, or a jaguar ready to pounce.’
‘There you go,’ smiled David as he accepted another beer from a passing waiter.
The room was packed. The close to 4000 square foot high-ceilinged space was now overflowing with 300 men in dinner suits and women in ball gowns who swept in and out of the ornately decorated tables with all the elegance and urgency that networking at high-powered events such as these required.
The annual Massachusetts Law Society St Valentine’s Day Ball was a major asterisk on Boston’s legal fraternity calendar – the first chance since New Year’s to don the finery and make contact with old friends, new acquaintances and, more importantly for many, stroke the egos of those they either needed to impress on one hand, or intended to exploit on the other.
When David’s boss, Arthur Wright, of Wallace, Wright and Gertz, begged off the annual do for the second year in a row, and David’s pregnant partner Sara announced she was flying south to see her birth mom in Atlanta for the weekend, David had roped his good pal Mannix into playing his ‘date’ for the evening – figuring that if he was going to suffer mingling with the ‘in’ crowd for close to four hours, then at the very least his detective friend could repay the previous weekend’s disaster by graciously sharing the ‘pain’.
‘David,’ said a voice from behind.
David turned to see his good friend and fellow Boston College Law School grad Tony Bishop move towards him with his arm outstretched. ‘Hey, Tony,’ said David. ‘You remember Joe?’
‘Sure,’ replied the good-looking Bishop, wearing a designer tux David knew would have cost the blue chip corporate attorney a cool four figures. ‘It’s good to see you again, Lieutenant. Although, judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing you are here under sufferance.’
‘More like torturance,’ replied Joe with a smile. ‘And if that’s not a word it should be – simply to describe how a cop like me feels at a five-star schmooze fest such as this.’
And they laughed.
Fifteen minutes later, dinner was served – a four-course feast which began with an entrée of salmon marinated with lightly smoked wild fennel, followed by roast octopus tartare with avocado, tomato and spring onion, progressing to a wild mushroom crusted filet mignon with truffle jus, and finishing with a dessert of lemon fallen soufflé tart with coconut ice cream.
The room appeared to sparkle inside and out. Four crystal chandeliers hung like diamonds from the silver leaf ceiling complementing the fairy lights strung on the now leafless trees outside the windows. The imported silk drapes had been pulled back to reveal the snow-drenched expanse of the sculptured Public Gardens and beyond.
‘You’ve done it now,’ said Tony Bishop, pointing to an anxious-faced woman who was arguing with a hotel employee about some sort of problem with the seating.
‘Jesus, Tony,’ said David, taking another sip of his European beer. ‘They put me and Joe on a table with Roger Katz for Christ’s sake.’ The ambitious Suffolk County Assistant District Attorney was an old opponent and egotistical ass who both David and Joe were more than comfortable despising.
‘True,’ said Tony. ‘But switching name cards is more than just a little juvenile, DC,’ he smiled, still referring to David by his college nickname after all these years.
‘Having said that,’ Tony continued, ‘I’ve just noticed that Amanda Carmichael is sitting across from Katz which gets me to thinking that maybe I should have been the one screwing with the seating allocations from the get go. That woman is smart, driven and . . .’
‘Not bad to look at either,’ said David, who knew that every red-blooded male in the ballroom had checked out the twenty-something ADA Carmichael, whose normally well-secured long blonde hair now fell loose down her pale, bare-skinned back.
‘You think?’ smiled Tony, who had always had the ability to not only target, but more often than not leave, with the best looking woman in the room. ‘I hear she broke up with that high-powered ass from the Attorney General’s Office.’
‘I hear that ass talked Scaturro into promoting her to Katz’s second-in-charge in Scaturro’s absence,’ offered David, referring to the current Suffolk County District Attorney Loretta Scaturro who, late last year, had taken extended leave to look after her Alzheimer’s stricken mother.
‘A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,’ smiled Tony.
‘As long as she does it with you, am I right, Bishop?’ said David.
Tony grinned. ‘I’ll be on my way to pay my respects then,’ he said, using a napkin to wipe his mouth before rising from his cream silk chair to head towards the other side of the room.
‘At least he’s consistent,’ said David, returning his attention to Joe.
‘Regular as sunshine in August.’
‘Hello,’ said a soft voice, and David turned to see a thin, pale-skinned woman now perching in Tony’s vacated seat beside him.
‘It’s Stephanie,’ she said with a smile, obviously realising David had failed to recognise her. ‘Stephanie Tyler from . . .’
‘College,’ finished David, taking her hand – surprised by the narrowness of her face, the coldness of her grip and the whisper-like texture of her voice. ‘My God, Stephanie, you look . . .’ He wanted to say fantastic but in all honesty the woman before him appeared a smaller, meeker shadow of the vibrant, boisterous girl he remembered from law school. But then he saw the spark in her bright blue eyes, and the memories came rushing back.
‘Gosh it’s good to see you,’ he said – and he meant it. ‘This is my friend Lieutenant Joe Mannix. Joe’s a cop who works homicide so be careful what you tell him.’
Joe reached across the table to shake her hand. ‘Pleasure,’ he said.
‘Nice to see the force present at one of these do’s, Lieutenant.’
‘I owed dateless David here a favour,’ explained Joe.
‘Ah. You are a good friend then,’ she smiled.
‘Not that good,’ said Joe. ‘I’m heading to the bar, if I’m not back in ten you can send out a search party.’
‘You bail on me and I’ll kill you, Mannix.’
‘And you see the irony in that, don’t you?’
‘I guess I do.’
David moved his chair so that he might face his old friend.
‘You look good, David,’ Stephanie said. ‘How long has it been – thirteen years, fourteen?’
‘More like seventeen,’ he said. ‘In fact the last time I saw you I think we were trying to work out a way to explain to your father how we had commandeered his cruiser, broken the steering equipment, flooded the motor with gasoline and . . .’
‘Failed to check the fuel gauge so that we . . .’
‘Ran out of gas about fifteen minutes into our clandestine trip,’ he finished with a laugh.
‘We made you swim back. Do you remember?’ she smiled.
‘Do I ever – a good mile to the jetty with an empty petrol tin strapped to my back. I remember getting about a quarter of the way and looking back to see you and Tony and Karin laughing yourselves senseless on the top deck.’
‘We got seriously drunk,’ she laughed.
‘And I got the nastiest head cold I’d had in years.’
This was fun, David thought, as his mind cast back to a time when he and his first wife Karin double dated with Stephanie Tyler and Tony Bishop. Karin was David’s first love – his teenage pre-med-student sweetheart who he married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-three after she fell in love with a bigwig Washington surgeon by the name of Professor Stuart Montgomery. And Tony Bishop – the same tall, dark and handsome attorney who was currently sweet-talking Amanda Carmichael mere feet away, was Stephanie’s ex – the two of them genuinely in love, at least at the time.
‘Tony was just here,’ said David, thinking aloud. ‘Did you . . . ?’
‘Yes, I noticed,’ she said, gesturing at the obviously preoccupied Bishop. ‘Hasn’t lost
his touch then?’ she joked.
‘Tony always knew a beautiful woman when he saw one, Stephanie.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment then,’ she said.
‘Please do.’ He smiled.
‘I was so sorry to hear about your father,’ he said, referring to Malcolm Tyler, sole owner of one of the most successful, independently owned wineries in the country. David had read that Tyler, a single father to his only child Stephanie, had died in an unfortunate boating accident some time late last year.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking a breath. ‘At least he died doing what he loved best.’
David nodded, noticing her wide blue eyes fill momentarily with the slightest tinge of sorrow.
‘So tell me,’ she said. ‘What have you been up to? Not that I haven’t been following your successes – the Martin Trial, Montgomery and the Matheson thing last year.’
‘I’m about to become a father,’ he said, feeling the need to tell his old friend the most important new development in his life. ‘My partner Sara is a couple of months pregnant – she’s in Atlanta for the weekend. You two would get on like a house on fire, Stephanie. She works with me at our firm and, well . . . things are good.’
‘Oh that’s just wonderful,’ she said. ‘Parenthood is the best, David. I know. I’ve done it twice.’
‘Your kids must be all grown up now,’ he said, recalling that Stephanie married and had children not long after she left college.
‘Chelsea just turned sixteen and J.T. is thirteen.’
‘Unbelievable,’ said David.
‘Time flies,’ she said, her eyes glistening once again – perhaps with a sense of sorrow at the momentum life had forced upon her.
‘And your work?’ asked David then, sensing a change of subject was in order. ‘The last thing I heard you accepted some big job at Cunningham, Eather and Groves. Not that you didn’t have a million offers out of college, with your grades and . . .’
‘I was in corporate development,’ she interrupted him. ‘Oh it was terrific, David, interesting, demanding – a real challenge. But I was only there a year when I met Jeffrey and got married and had kids and . . . long story short, now I run a small practice from home, servicing local businesses and the like.’
